


even strokes

by galaxyeyedrops



Category: Persona 5
Genre: F/M, M/M, tagged major chara death bc of the fact yusuke is an orphan in the present, the demon painter (p2) is yusuke's father
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 07:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17678894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxyeyedrops/pseuds/galaxyeyedrops
Summary: A year after the Phantom Thieves, Kitagawa Yusuke hires a former detective to help him find his biological father.





	even strokes

**Author's Note:**

> originally a project for the p5 big bang but i couldn't make deadlines so i dropped out. so. its a wip.

After everything, Goro moves.

It was too small, he told Ren as he carefully perused the shop’s assortment of daffodils. He made a joke about how he was still a growing boy. How he needed space to stretch out. He punctuated it with a wink, perhaps a bit too flirty for their current situation, but habit was habit. Unlike his career, years of drilled television etiquette didn't disappear overnight.

To be honest, the former was less than a problem than expected. Goro never planned to survive Shido's takedown—not for long at least—and as such had never done anything to curb his spending habits or invest properly for the future. His then current apartment, located in Setagaya, a short walk from the station, wasn't cheap. But given how the courts declared Goro Shido's heir, transferred to him what was left in his father's accounts after restitution, it was far from a drain on his finances.

The unit was large enough to support a family, spacious ( _open concept_ was the current buzzword), with all the modern amenities it could afford. Once upon a time, when he was nothing but a delusional brat—dressed in decades of hand me downs and enchanted with the idea of not dying at some street corner, forgotten and alone—Goro loved it. But now, with the blood used to pay each month's rent seeped into the floorboards, Goro, with his newly rediscovered morality, cannot take two steps without suffocating.

Ren, never invited into Goro's home but aware, always aware, did not mention it. He made an offer instead. Volunteered to help him change apartments.

Goro looked at his victim, the closest thing he had to a friend, and smiled.

“No need,” he said, tongue coated with the saccharine he used when he wanted someone to back off. “I've already settled in.”

  
A year later and nothing feels settled. It's morning, the sun shines bright, steadily traveling to its apex, and Goro has the blinds drawn close. He's normally not up this early. With the absence of his previous schedule, waking up before noon is as draining as it is unnecessary. However, Sundays are the exception.

On Sunday, new episodes of Featherman air. Spandex clad heroes deliver their justice to a variety of rubber suited monsters, and Goro, clad in a pair of sweats he's long outgrown, watches them as he eats breakfast. Week after week, programming breaks excluded; series after series. It's not something new, this routine was established long ago—the moment he was free of the foster homes, when he had a TV that was his and his alone—and persisted throughout the years. With his new lifestyle, it's more or less ritual.

By the time the previews roll around, there's an extra wrapper on the floor, blending in with the layer of trash, receipts and bills interlaid at certain points, the bottle of water left half finished the only thing standing upright. He leans back as soon as the ads start to play, rolls over as soon as the next show's theme song begins, directly facing the moving boxes. His pocket buzzes. He ignores it. It buzzes again. And then again.

When he fishes out his phone, its lit up, notification flashing across the screen. Three messages from Kitagawa Yusuke.

 

* * *

 

 

The policeman delivers the bag to Yusuke with little interest. His eyes shift to his computer the moment he's fished it out from the evidence files, and slides it across the table with a lazy push. Yusuke's hand stops it before it can slip too far, fingers curl to cradle the contents.

The release form is placed in front of him in moments. A corner is stained with soy sauce—no doubt from the policeman's lunch. The man doesn't comment on it and when Yusuke's eyes drift over the document, meeting the policeman's own after he reads it through and signs, there is no hint of shame either. Not even an averted gaze.

At any other time, in any other situation, Yusuke would scoff. He'd remember each detail and recount it later at LeBlanc for a friend to hear, the other nodding and huffing sympathetically, disgusted at the carelessness.

But today, he doesn't. Today, he has more important things to do.

  
Dialing Futaba's number is automatic. Yusuke has his phone out minutes after he gets back home, the first few numbers are memorized, the rest the device fills in. The bell rings once, twice, before Yusuke is connected to who is, more or less, his best friend.

"Yusuke?" she asks, stretching out the vowels with a yawn. "You normally text. Anything wrong?"

“I have it.” he says, voice just on the edge of breathless. “I've picked up the item—"

"—And? Any clues?"

Yusuke holds the letter in question up to the light. Like this, he can easily see every fold and crease, every affirmation of love written within.

 

* * *

 

  
If Risa had one word to describe the man sitting across from her, it would be striking. He's dressed up in all black, from his clothes to accessories, barely sweating in the summer heat as he leans forwards, paintbrush constantly moving behind his easel.

He's been at the park for a good while now—set down his tools in front of the bench an hour or so back—and has been engrossed in his subject ever since. His strokes range from slow and smooth to furiously passionate and she can't help but find herself entranced.

She sets her book down in the grass, slowly rises, using the tree trunk as support, brushes off her pants and approaches.

"So…" she asks, when she's right in front of him, barely a foot away from his easel. "You're painting?"

She wants to hit herself on the head immediately. Stupid question. Stupid!

"Yes," he says with a nod, absolutely no bite in his words. "I wanted a different atmosphere for my new piece."

A pause. She looks at him, expectant.

"Would you like to see?"

She grins. "I'd love to!" She walks around his set up, until she can clearly see the painting itself. And then a bit closer because modesty meant nothing before good art.

And good art, it was.

The subject is detailed in shades of red and black, the being composed of faces in rage and agony—each distinct and yet identical to the others. What are legs, or perhaps entrails, grow between them, harmonic in their horrific nature.

"It's beautiful..." Risa can't help but whisper, the words tumbling out naturally. She can feel the weight of the gaze that follows her words. Her eyes drift across the painting, drawing out details.

“The composition is wonderful,” she starts, fairly conservative, but can't help herself gushing near the end. _The red you used is perfect, singing of rage and blood. The lines growing less and less clean as they expand—incredible!_

She doesn't praise him for long but given the flush to his cheeks she might as well have. Nice. Two types of eye candy for the price of once.

“You like art.” he says, a moment later. It's a statement rather than a question, camouflage for his blush, but for Risa it's something else entirely. A reason to brag.

"Yep!” she says with a smile. “I'm working on some stuff right now, waiting for it to take off and all, and well," she points at a medium sized building in the distance. "This local art gallery was looking for an assistant curator so! I applied!"

"Oh." he says. And because she's still staring at him, "that's impressive."

Her smile manages to stretch even wider. "Of course," she says, not even bothering with humility. "It took a lot of work and begging but I made it!"

She stops, snapping out her praise induced fugue. "Oh, I forgot." She gestures at the monster on the man's canvas. "What's that supposed to be?"

"Legion." he says. "A demon with origins related to Christianity. Or rather," he corrects himself, "a herd of demons, all possessing one man—coalescing into one being."

He points at the parts still traced in charcoal. A farm, idyllic, featuring several animals, a pen of pigs at the forefront. "When they were expelled by the Christian Messiah, they took up residence in a group of pigs. And then drowned not soon after."

"The whole is greater than the sum of it's parts?" she guesses. His approving gaze spurs her on. "The way you drew Legion, there's a uniformity to him, while all of the animals in the background are just a bit disbalanced." She points at the deliberate chaos in the pigpen, how a few horses have wandered out of their stables. "The composition sets Legion to be a central figure, untouchable by what goes around it, maybe even the cause of all this."

"So…yeah…" she trails off, self aware with the lack of response.

“He's captivating, isn't he?" He clarifies a second later. "Legion."

“He is," she admits easily. She extends a hand. "Kitagawa Risa."

He takes it. "They call me the Demon Painter."

**Author's Note:**

> honk for akekita


End file.
